


Be Alone with Me

by hannah_jpg



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abrasiveness, Awkwardness, F/M, Introverts, This is gona be gr8, denials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-07 07:46:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12228609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_jpg/pseuds/hannah_jpg
Summary: A chance meeting in the woods, an awkward Lothíriel, and a persistent Éomer.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short story I posted on Tumblr quite some time ago, and wanted to share here. Hope you enjoy!

The beckoning of the forest was too much for Lothíriel to resist.

The last several days following the battle on the Pelennor fields had distressed her to every corner of her body and every inch of her soul. All she wanted was solitude; time away from the city, from the dying, the wounded, the fearful citizens, and most of all—the responsibilities she had been given as the highest born lady in Gondor. It was completely unearned. She had no related merits to her name that caused her to deserve such a task from Denethor. In fact, it was a burden; a punishment, and she was thoroughly sick of it. That her uncle was now dead was no consolation, for her duties were not removed, even with the battle won and better qualified people now in residence in Minas Tirith.

Without telling her father, (who was presently completely occupied in meetings with many high-ranking men whom she could not name); without seeking a guard, and dressed in riding clothes more befitting a stablehand than a princess, Lothíriel absconded from the city on her mare, Rhÿn.

Such an escapade would have been out of the question even a few days earlier, but with the massive influx of soldiers and huge camp set out right outside the broken front gates, Lothíriel reasoned that she was perfectly safe, from orcs at least. She had brought along a knife as a precaution against evil-minded men. However, Rhÿn was a speedy lady, and Lothíriel was vain enough to believe that only a fully-trained and well-rested Rohirric horse could catch her. Even with most of her time spent in the highest circles of the city, she had seen enough of the northmen’s mounts to recognize quality, as well as to develop an intense envy.

The foliage sped past as she urged Rhÿn faster and faster, up and up the sloped hills and deeper into the forest. The air was clear, sun dappled the mossy ground and pleasant birdsong could be heard even over her hitched breathing, Rhÿn’s snorting, and the mare’s galloping hooves. Almost she could pretend that there were not a thousand problems awaiting her return….almost.

Without warning, Lothíriel heard a shout behind her, and she turned to see a horse and rider approaching her from a fair distance, though they had not the speed she did. A small seed of panic filled her breast, and she spurred Rhÿn forward. Another shout, and she turned forward, ignoring it. She did not see the low-hanging branch in front of her, though she did feel it collide with her head as the ground rushed up to meet her and lights flashed in her eyes.

* * *

 

Her head was pounding. Something was pressing on the back of her skull, and it throbbed painfully. She moaned.

“Are you conscious?” A man’s voice, deep and lightly accented, made her ears pulse, and Lothíriel winced.

“Obviously,” she muttered, trying to lift a hand to rub her eyes but hitting a body on its ascent. The man chuckled, and she opened her eyes to glare. She was lying on the forest floor, staring upwards at the budding foliage that dotted the trees. A figure was bent over her—the man that had spoken—his face creased with concern. He was a northman; blond and fully-bearded, and his green eyes crinkled around the edges as she stared.

“You had a nasty fall,”  he said unhelpfully. “You are lucky I was nearby.”

“Were you following me?” Lothíriel asked, ignoring the pain as she blinked several times.

“Not on purpose. I was on a ride myself; I saw you going awfully fast—too fast for the terrain and so I thought I would warn you. I have learned a few low opinion of most Gondorian riders,” he added with a superiority that made her bristle.

“I am an excellent rider!” she snapped, and tried to lift herself to a sitting position but only making her aching headache worsen, and she slumped back to the ground.

“Take a moment to rest,” the man said. “We are in no hurry.”

“Where is Rhÿn?” Lothíriel closed her eyes, wishing the pain away.

“Your mare? She is perfectly well; you took the branch entirely upon your own head. She is tethered close by.”

She sighed then, realizing that the intended solitude and rest of her day was now out of reach. If she was concussed, which was a real possibility, she could not ride back by herself.

The man spoke again. “You have a nasty cut on your head, do you mind if I wash it? I have fresh water to do so.”

“You do not have to, I am sure it is just a scratch.”

“Perhaps, but it is a dirty scratch. Do you have a clean handkerchief or something of the sort? I am afraid I have no such niceties about my person.”

Lothíriel tried to gather her hazy thoughts, trying to remember precisely what she had brought with her. “Yes—yes I think so,” she said, and dug through the front pocket on her dirty tunic to produce a rather pristine, frilly lace handkerchief. It had survived the dirt of the day very well. The man took the handkerchief from her hand, staring at it with a bemused expression. “What is it?” she asked, feeling irritated. “Is the pattern not to your liking?”

“Not exactly the best material for dressing a wound,” he said with a flicker of a smile. “But I shall do my best anyway.”

She cringed at his fingers prodding the wound—gentle as he was trying to be, the sharp pain still shot through her head mercilessly. The cool water he used to clean it was pleasant, at least, and Lothíriel felt her mind begin to clear somewhat.

“Can you sit up yet?” he asked after a few moments.

Lothíriel gingerly lifted her head, and then her shoulders, and the man reached out his long arms to support her as she shifted her weight into a sitting position. His hands were warm and unyielding on her back, and she gave him a weak smile in gratitude. “I am feeling better,” she said. “Thank you—thank you for your help.”

“It is no problem,” he said, and offered her his waterskin, and she took a long draught as he continued. “Though, may I ask—I thought the people in Minas Tirith were supposed to, well, stay within the walls. By the decree of  the prince of Dol Amroth, I believe.”

Lothíriel suppressed a scowl, returning his waterskin. “I know many ways out of the city,” she said, choosing not to reveal that she had been forced to memorize the structure of Minas Tirith as well as its numerous escape routes for the siege. “Anyway— _you_ are out of the city,” she added, fixing him with a suspicious glare.

He grinned then, a blinding flash of teeth that transformed his features into something—well, quite handsome. “No prince can command me,” he said. “Nor king, for that matter, if you were intending to press the point.”

“I was not,” she said crossly.

“So, returning to my original question—why did you go through the effort of escaping?”

Lothíriel wrapped her knees in her arms, considering how to respond. She had no desire to tell this stranger of her true identity: what if he felt honor-bound to return her to her father with a full account of her actions? Or, what if he had no honor and compromised her, or held her for ransom? Her brothers had always teased her for her overactive imagination, and as she studied his honest eyes she began to believe that they were correct. But it was still safer to reveal as little as possible. “I have been working very hard of late,” she said at last. “I am—I am tired and rather frustrated. I have always preferred solitude, and have had none of that for weeks. I needed a respite.”

The man was nodding along with her words, his mouth having hardened into a grim line. “I understand,” he said. “I feel much the same.” She gave him a small smile, and he looked away, his ears—for some odd reason—turning bright red. “I have been burned with unexpected responsibility,” he continued, his voice low. “I...was unprepared. I have no idea how I should act, what I should do…”

Lothíriel frowned, laying a hand on his bare arm, noticing briefly the dull brown of his tunic where the sleeves had been rolled up. The warm feel of his skin disoriented her, and she took back her hand quickly as she spoke. “The war has put all of us in unforeseen positions,” she said. “I am sure that your comrades will give you plenty of quarter for it.”

He looked up at her in surprise, his brows creasing as she blushed. “Anyway,” he said briskly. “I can hardly spare a thought for my position. I may not even return from the Black Gate!”

The man’s hollow laugh made Lothíriel’s stomach twist sickly, and even more so his mention of the Black Gate. She was not privy to such matters as war strategies, but she knew that her brothers and father would be leaving within a few days for a march from which they likely would not return. So this man was to join the exodus. It made her heart ache. “Well,” she said, trying for bravado but her words sounding false to her own ears. “If you do—I shall return your kindness and dress your wounds. Then—then at least you know someone is waiting for you.” Lothíriel was not sure why she said it; for all she knew the man was yearning to return to a wife and children in Rohan.

He stared at her for a moment, and then laughed aloud; the sound of joy utterly foreign, and Lothíriel smiled to hear it. “You are very charming,” he said. “Are you a healer, then?”

“N—no.”

“A servant?”

“No!”

The man still grinned at her. “You need to give me some sort of information,” he said. “So that I might find you.”

“Oh...I, I—” Lothíriel stammered. “I am not hard to find.”

“And do you have a name?”

She thought quickly, deciding that it was safer to give him her mother’s name. “You may call me Rhîlos. If you inquire after me in the city...I believe you will be directed the right way.”

His eyebrows shot upwards. “That is not your name,” he said. “I can spot a lie, especially one so poorly delivered.” Lothíriel’s eyes narrowed at him, but he shrugged.

“Are you going to return the favor and tell me your name?” she asked.

“I will do exactly as you—not tell you my true name, that is. My father’s name was Éomund; I will answer to that.”

She was feeling annoyed that he was not telling her his name—after all, what could a common soldier have to hide? “I should be returning now, Éomund,” she said in a cool voice. “My—my father will be wondering where I am.” Lothíriel realized, too late, that she should not have mentioned her father. This man might know him personally; he did know, after all, Imrahil’s decree that citizens stay in the city.

“I will escort you back,” he said, and stood before offering her his hand. “I do not trust that you are healed enough to be left alone.” Lothíriel allowed herself to be assisted, her mind dizzying only briefly before she had her footing, the sure grip of his hands on her arms a rather comforting sensation. “Stay here,” he ordered, and truthfully still feeling too weak to protest, she complied. He untied Rhÿn’s reins from a nearby tree, leading the mare to her. Her knees were trembling from the exertion, and it was only with Éomund’s help that she was able to swing herself onto the saddle.

“Next time, you really must look where you are riding,” he said, patting her leg with a grin. “Imagine if you had been alone!”

“The only reason I was not looking was because I heard someone—you!—coming up behind me,” Lothíriel said, piqued.

“I am sure I will not be startling you next time,” Éomund said drily, and Lothíriel waited patiently as he retrieved his own horse, a massive stallion of dappled grey. She stared at the horse, admiring it with a substantial amount of jealousy. Éomund did notice this as he secured Rhÿn’s reins to his own saddle. “Do not tell me you have eyes for my horse!” he said with a laugh.

“A secret it shall be, then.”

Still chuckling, the man mounted his beautiful horse. They set out at a fairly slow place, and Lothíriel noticed that the sun filtering through the trees was turning a dark gold—evening was approaching. It was far later than she intended to return, and the thought of her father’s reaction to her absence made her nervous. Or perhaps he would be too busy with the preparations for the departure of the armies that he had not even noticed. No, that would not be true—she had too many duties that were likely unfulfilled. Even in this time of uncertainty, the people of Minas Tirith still required a judge—that would be Lothíriel—to settle their petty disputes. As the lady in charge of the steward’s house as well as her father’s, she was also managing both households. Even remembering these things, and imagining what difficulties tomorrow would bring, made her feel like crashing into another tree branch—perhaps this time she could be unconscious longer. But no, she thought as she say Éomund’s straight, broad back riding in front of her; it was be unfair to her gallant rescuer.

Minas Tirith finally came into sight as they broke free of the forest, the dark of dusk making the twinkling lights of candles, fires and lanterns look like golden stars. Lothíriel sighed, and nudged Rhÿn forward to stop by Éomund, who had paused.

“I will continue alone from here,” she said. “Thank you, Éomund, for your kindness and your help. I shall always remember it.”

He had turned to her, appearing startled at her words. Or perhaps he was surprised that she was speaking after the past hour or so of silence. “I should leave you at your home,” he said.

“No!” Lothíriel said quickly. “I am truly feeling much better. I do not wish to be an inconvenience to you; I am sure you have a place to be.”

“You are not an inconvenience,” he said, his tone warm and low as he looked reproachfully at her.

“I—I—” she swallowed. “Really, I could not be seen with you alone.”

“Ahh…” Éomund’s lips disappeared into a thin line as he returned his gaze to the city, looking bothered. “Well then; it was lovely to meet you, Rhîlos. I do hope I will see you again.”

“As do I,” Lothíriel said, feeling shy. “And—I do hope you are not wounded upon your return; to be honest my healing abilities are...subpar.”

He gave her a final grin. “I also hope that I am not wounded,” he said. “And I will find you. Farewell, Rhîlos.”

“Good night, Éomund.” She turned Rhÿn to the north, where the hidden entrance she had used to escape was at the end of a long, unmarked, and gloomy road, leaving the man staring after her.  



	2. Chapter 2

The sight of plentiful food, waving banners, lively dancing, and happy, satisfied guests brought Lothíriel the first true satisfaction she had felt for weeks.

While the news of the victory at the Black Gate had been welcomed by all inhabitants of the city, it had also brought to Lothíriel added burden as she scrambled to prepare for the influx of the returning armies. Still, despite the last few harrowing days, she was all too happy to pass over her duties to anyone who would take them. This feast, prepared for the nobles, dignitaries, commanders and their families, was her final action as informal regent; or so she hoped.

A hand took her arm, and Lothíriel started as Erchirion leaned down to press a kiss to her cheek. “You are lovely tonight,” he said. “Apart from your expression, that is.”

“And what is wrong with my expression, brother?” she asked, giving him a level stare.

“Nothing...nothing,” Erchirion said in haste. “Errrr…” He trailed off, and Lothíriel returned her gaze to the mass of people. She was looking for someone in particular, unable to bear the thought that he had died. Éomund had been on her mind in her every free moment since that day in the forest, and her heart thumped at the mere thought that she might see him soon. “You have not mingled at all,” her brother added.

“I am not a social woman, as I know you are aware.”

“Still. There are many young man looking in this direction.”

This she had not realized, and Lothíriel focused on a few faces of said young men—Erchirion was right. Several of them lifted their wine glasses to her, and she felt her back stiffen. “They can look all they want,” she said, resisting the temptation to grit her teeth together. “I decided long ago not to marry.”

“Really! I did not know that. And what, exactly, are your reasons for such a thing?” Erchirion asked.

“Because I care little for company,” Lothíriel said, eyes sweeping the great hall again. “I have never met a man that is not a bother.”

“I take offense to that!”

“Take all the offense you would like.”

Erchirion huffed, but Lothíriel knew him too well to believe that he was actually upset. “And what about you?” she asked. “You are eligible as well; where are your admirers?”

“Mooning over Amrothos, most likely. His handsome scar has made him most desirable to the ladies.”

Lothíriel was already well aware of this, and she caught sight of Amrothos, who was leading the prettiest girl in the room onto the floor for dancing with a sappy look on his face, which also bore a mark from an orc mace. It was not yet fully healed, but she had to admit it gave him a rakish air.

“Say, Lothíriel—it looks like you can count the king of Rohan among your admirers! He has been trying to catch your eye for five minutes now.”

“Who?”

“Éomer, of course—he is just left of the statue of Isildur.”

Lothíriel followed her brother's nod, the sight of the green and white emblems of the northmen making her stomach fill with butterflies. Then she saw a golden head, an easy smile, a meaningful look directed at her— _it was Éomund._ He was surrounded by a few other men of Rohan, and he raised his cup of mead in her direction. He was a far cry from the plain man she remembered, dressed in fine velvets shot through with gold thread, an emblem of a bursting sun sewn onto his breast. His boots were polished and his beard trimmed. “Who—who did you say was the king?” she asked her brother in a small voice.

“The one toasting you, of course. Have you not met him?”

So. Éomund—or rather, Éomer—was the new king! Lothíriel was not sure if she ought to be relieved or upset—here she had been thinking he was a common soldier! Despite her firm words to Erchirion, she had hoped for her rescuer to return that she might, well, marry him. He was one of the very few people whose company she did not find vexing! Without taking leave of her brother, she began walking towards Éomer as if in a trance.

“Well met,” Éomer said, and he bowed low over her hand before kissing it, making Lothíriel feel weak at the knees.  He smiled at her, and then tugged her closer, moving his hand to her forehead, where he brushed away her stray hair before gently touching where her cut had been. “You healed nicely,” he said, glancing downward to her dark blue silk gown, in which she suddenly felt immodest. “And you clean up marvelously.”

“So do you.” Lothíriel felt stupidly slow, as his intense gaze seemed to paralyze her somehow. Where had the other men gone, anyway? It was only the two of them by the statue now.

“Thank you. And may I say—I have quite the bone to pick with you!”

“Really? I cannot see why.”

He was grinning widely now. “I have gone to the healing houses every day to seek you out! I wanted to make sure you made good on your promise. But alas, you are nowhere to be found! What if I really had been injured?”

“You would have been treated by one of the dozens of trained healers,” Lothíriel said, digging in her heels as she prepared for a sally. “As I told you, my own healing prowess leaves much to be desired. And besides—I was far too busy to be making erratic trips to the healing houses.”

Éomer studied her, and against her will a blush began to creep up her neck and cheeks. “Busy?” he asked. “Will you be telling me of your true identity now? I must admit to a certain…jealousy when I saw your easy way with Erchirion. Do you know him well? Or—I am afraid to ask—” He did look somewhat uncomfortable. “Are you…his intended?” The notion was so odd that Lothíriel could not help laughing at Éomer’s earnest expression. “Now, don't tease!” he added.

“I am not intended to Erchirion, or anyone else for that matter,” Lothíriel said, her smile lingering. “He is my brother.”

A strange succession of emotions passed on the Rohan king’s face. Relief, confusion, and at last—alarm; Lothíriel enjoyed the way his eyes widened. “You—you are Lothíriel?” he asked at last.

“I have never been told otherwise.”

Éomer studied her for a moment more, and then set his wineglass on the pedestal of the statue. “I suppose that complicates things,” he said with a rueful smile.

“In what way?”

“Ah—never mind. Here is your father now.” Éomer nodded over her shoulder, and Lothíriel straightened before turning to greet her father. It irked her that he was intruding their private conversation!

“Good evening, daughter,” Imrahil said, giving her a brief kiss on her forehead before nodding to the king beside her. “Éomer. Daughter, I wished to compliment you on the celebrations tonight; there have been no mishaps and everyone is enjoying themselves. I am impressed.”

“Are you impressed enough to relieve me?” Lothíriel asked with hope. “I would like to wash my hands of all this nonsense.”

“Nonsense? You have done a remarkable part in keeping the city running smoothly.” Her father looked astonished and concerned as he studied her. “You find no satisfaction in this?”

“I find satisfaction on allowing others their duties rather than hoarding them for myself. I am not the queen of Gondor nor stewardess of Minas Tirith.”

Imrahil was shaking his head. “Lothíriel, what a thing to say! But, of course, you are correct—we shall work out something and you may be relieved.”

“Thank you, Father!”

Éomer had been observing this conversation with great interest, and after Imrahil left Lothíriel prepared herself for a barrage of questions, which, surprisingly, did not come. “Well?” she asked, impatient at his continued silence.

“Well, what?”

“Are you not going to ask me why I dislike my duties here?”

“There is no need,” Éomer said. “I can imagine exactly why you do not like it. You did mention, at our first meeting, that you preferred solitude and found your occupation to be frustrating. I did not realize exactly your station, of course, but that is neither here nor there, I suppose.”

Lothíriel lifted her chin, almost feeling uneasy that he recalled what she had said that day. “Even so,” she said.

“If I may ask—if you do not like to be lady of the house, what do you enjoy doing?”

She considered this before answering, the question never having been put to her before. “I like to ride,” Lothíriel said. “I am happiest when I am alone, reading is a favored pastime, and—I work in the library, restoring old manuscripts and books or copying them.”

Éomer seemed taken aback at this, blurting, “Truly?”

“I am not lying, if that is what you mean.”

“No, not at all! I only—there are few books in the Mark, and I am astonished that you do such a thing. A princess!”

“Not my body nor my hands care that I am a princess,” Lothíriel said crossly. “It is only a title, and an earthly one at that. I am an ordinary woman, at the core of it all.”

He tilted his head as he studied her, and then chuckled. “A lovely speech. Lothíriel, you really are something.”

She was unsure whether to take it as a compliment or an insult, and so she stared belligerently back at him, which brought Éomer even more amusement. “Do you have very many opportunities to ride anymore?” he asked.

“I have not.”

“Would you care to go with me, sometime?”

Lothíriel bit her lip. Her earlier conversation with Erchirion about suitors and admirers had made her uncomfortably aware of her position in Gondor—the highest ranking princess with a wealthy father and of marriageable age. If she did go riding with Éomer—which she desperately wanted to—their intentions would be talked about in every circle of the city. But she had just told him she was an ordinary woman, separate from her title; it was high time she lived that way. “I would like that very much,” she said with a smile. “I intend to be very free from now on, too. You have only to name the day and time.”

“Tomorrow morning, dawn.”

Her aversion must have shown in her face, for Éomer threw his head back and laughed, drawing attention to their coze from the other guests. Lothíriel shushed him reproachfully. “I would rather be sleeping,” she conceded. “But I will be there.”

“I was only teasing,” Éomer said, and he picked up one of her hands, his thumb gently rubbing over her knuckles. “Though I do prefer mornings.”

Lothíriel withdrew her hand; she knew they were being watched and it outweighed the pleasure of his touch by only a few degrees. “I will compromise and suggest directly after the morning meal.”

“I shall hold you to it.”

She felt heady from his smile when she at last turned to leave.

* * *

 

However, the following morning, while she was dressing in her finest riding outfit in a sleepy haze, a note was delivered by a maid, written in a strong hand that she was sure belonged to Éomer.

 _Princess Lothíriel,_ it began very formally. _I must beg your forgiveness. I cannot attend to our ride today—evidently last night I forgot entirely about a counsel that is beginning shortly  with Elessar, Farmir and your father. Under other circumstances, I would bunk without a second thought, but truth be told: I am terrified of your father. I will make it up to you another time. —Éomer._

Disappointment seemed to seep into her bones, and with a sigh Lothíriel removed her riding clothes and flopped back into her bed, determined to enjoy a nap before luncheon. She had been spending too many late nights involved with the menial tasks of lady in residence, and now that her burden was eased she intended to make full use of it.

Her mind was unobliging, and instead of sleeping, she spent the next hours thinking about Éomer and his infuriating charm.

Why must it be her lot, that she admire a king? Her feelings had been so much simpler when he was a common soldier!

 


	3. Chapter 3

Late in the afternoon, Lothíriel retired to the blooming gardens that adorned her father’s house with a book in hand, intending to enjoy the warm weather as much as humanly possible. She was supremely grateful to Imrahil, who had taken her insistence upon quitting her duties well in hand, and she had not been bothered beyond the normal running of her father’s house that day. It was _glorious_. **  
**

Really, the only dreary part of the day was that she had not seen Éomer.

Along with her welcomed solitude, Lothíriel had had much time to spend with her thoughts, working out her exact feelings towards the king of Rohan. When she imagined him a common soldier, she had entertained fanciful ideas of running away to marry him and living in Rohan as a soldier’s wife for the rest of her days. She knew her father would not have minded too much; though he wanted comfort for her in marriage she knew he desired her happiness more, and with Éomer—she was happy. Lothíriel wished she knew how long he would be in Minas Tirith before returning to his own land. Since he was king, he ought to be there. No romantic dallying would be allowed for him!

She had also dug through her memories to recall exactly what gossip she had heard about Éomer in the last months. She knew he had become king on the plain of Pelennor when his uncle had died. On the same plain his sister had been found severely wounded, though know Lothíriel knew the Lady Eowyn to be nicely healed and perfectly happy, and likely off somewhere with Faramir. Beyond that, she remembered hazily that Éomer had been heir to his uncle because his cousin had died earlier in the war. It was a depressing thought; how much death and near death the poor man had experienced! It made her wonder that he seemed cheerful with her. How could he endure it? If it were her—if she had not been so fortunate to have all her menfolk return alive and hale—she would simply wish to die. Coping with misery was not her strong suit.

Lothíriel settled on a hard stone bench, opening her book before glancing at the trimmed green grass across the expanse of lawn. It really was no contest, and she stood before prancing to the center of the green, plopping down on her back and, with a yawn, delving into an antiquated account of Cirion and Eorl’s friendship and oath following the Battle of Celebrant.

“You seem comfortable.”

A shiver of awareness shot up her spine, but she lowered her book to scowl at the grinning man looking down at her and blocking out the blue sky, having come upon her so lost in her musings that she did not realize she had company. “I am comfortable,” she said coolly, lifting her book to her eyeline again. A pause. “You may join me, if you like, though I will not read aloud for your benefit. I do detest reading aloud.”

Éomer settled in by her, also lying on his back with their heads close together. He gave a monstrous sigh, and folded his hands across his stomach. “I have been searching for you all afternoon,” he said at length.

“Mmm. Then it was likely in all the wrong places, for I was not hiding.”

“What are you reading?”

Lothíriel tilted the book towards him so that he could read the spine, which he did with furrowed brows. “Interesting choice,” he said with a smile. “But it sounds dull.”

“If you mislike the topic, it could certainly be dull.”

“In Rohan, we sing a song of the battle and the oath. I find it much more interesting.”

It was a difficult choice for her in that moment; to continue her peaceful reading or to give in to Éomer’s engaging conversation. She marked her page and set the book in the grass. “It could be more interesting,” Lothíriel said. “I would prefer to sample both pleasures before deciding which I prefer.”

He chuckled. “A wise option, o princess! Truly, your practicality is astounding.”

“I am hardly practical. If I were, I would not be wasting the day reading; I would be mending clothes or something of that sort.”

“And what about your restoring manuscripts and old books?”

Lothíriel was surprised that he remembered that detail from their conversation last night. But his easy smile as he glanced at her, revealed nothing. “It is somewhat more practical, though not entirely,” she said. “One cannot live off of history, after all. But it is enriching to keep a record, and to preserve that of those who came before.”

She caught a glimpse of him studying the sky, looking serious as he mulled for a moment. “The records in Meduseld are on their way to real deterioration,” he said. “That is—my uncle’s—er—my hall. I have half a mind to hire you to restore it for the sake of our history.”

“And what would be the wage?”

Éomer turned to her with a bemused expression. “What?”

“The wage,” she said with impatience. “I cannot travel so far and work so hard without compensation.”

He paused a moment, and then broke into laughter. “Is not seeing a beautiful land of lush grasses and plains payment enough? Nor the promise of hospitality in my hall?” he teased.

“I would do it for a horse,” Lothíriel said, too quickly. “That is—I love my Rhÿn, but—” An involuntary whimper broke her sentence. “I adore your horses.”

Éomer was further startled by this revelation, and he stared. “A horse?” he asked. “You would—‘travel so far and work so hard’—for a horse?”

“Oh, yes!”

He propped himself up an elbow now, looking down at her with express astonishment written all over his face, and Lothíriel flushed at his scrutiny. “Surely you do not fault me for that,” she said, feeling belligerent at the strange influx of emotion in her breast.

“Not at all,” Éomer said, and he grinned. “I rather like it.”

She pursed her lips, giving him the best withering glare she could. “Anyway,” she said, feeling that it was safest to change the topic. “How were your meetings this morning?”

He fell back on the grass, a silly smile still on his face. “Reasonably productive,” Éomer said. “Dull, but productive. I am fortunate to have a man so experienced as your father as a friend. It makes the transition easier.”  
  
“Then it is fortunate indeed.”

“Lothíriel—” He looked her way once more. “I do not want to speak to you of these matters.”

“Why not? I have experience enough to sympathize or offer insight; whichever you prefer.”

“I prefer to talk of other things. Anything else! Lothíriel, you…everything about you is a welcome distraction from the recent miseries in my life. Please let us enjoy one another’s presence without our conversation turning serious!” Éomer’s earnest words made her feel a flush of awkwardness, and she turned away, seeking answers in the cloudless sky to the strange feelings he caused within her chest.

“I have upset you,” he said after a moment of silent tension.

“No. I simply do not know what to say to your declaration.”

“Say anything you like; I am rarely offended.”

Lothíriel glanced at him. “I will not speak unless I am certain of what I wish to express and how to say it.”

He was smiling into her eyes, jolting her with the expression in them. “You really are a wise woman,” Éomer said. “It is one of the things I admire about you.”

“One of the things?” Her discomfort was growing, and she decided to tease him out of his mood. “Are you implying that there are things about my person which you do not admire?” He laughed then, and Lothíriel counted her job well done. “Anyway,” she continued on a safer topic. “If your offer for a ride still stands—”

Éomer’s cheerful expression dimmed abruptly. “I am sorry,” he said in a tone a far cry from his laughing. “See, the reason I intended to take you out today is…well, I am leaving tomorrow morning for my home.”

Lothíriel had not expected this, and a hard knot of disappointment formed in her belly. She returned his watery smile before looking away. “Safe journey to you,then,” she said lightly. “It was kind of you to come and say goodbye.”

A pause. Then, “I do not want to say goodbye,” Éomer said. “I would prefer an ‘I will see you soon’ or ‘Until next time.’”

“Are you intending to return, then?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant though her heart was beating rapidly, with the idea that she may not see him again.

“If I have a reason to.”

“Do you not? I believe you are friends with my father and brothers, and certainly the new king as well. I think you have many reasons to return,” Lothíriel pointed out.

“They could as easily come to Edoras.”

“Minas Tirith is a more central location. It would be illogical.”

Éomer studied her for a moment, his lips pressed together as a breeze played around his face. Lothíriel was beginning to find the grass on her neck and face itchy. “I do have a reason to return, but not until July,” he admitted. “I am coming to fetch my uncle’s body so that he might be buried among his forefathers. I only—”

“What?” she prompted at his hesitation.

“I only wanted to hear from you if you desired to see me again.”

“You could have asked,” Lothíriel said, now thoroughly cross. She at last lifted herself into a sitting position, ignoring the man beside her as he sat up as well, instead picking up her book. It was nearly tea time anyway, and she anticipated enjoying a repast alone in her rooms. “Anyway, I do not see how it matters.” She was trying very hard to appear unperturbed in front of Éomer; she did not want him suspecting that she fancied him.

Éomer seemed concerned, though he attempted a grin. “It matters greatly to me,” he said. “Do—do you wish to see me again?”

“I suppose I could suffer through it.”

“Is that all I am going to pry from you?”

“Yes.”

He was chuckling now, and to her astonishment he leaned over to give her a loud kiss on her sun-warmed cheek. “I am having supper with Elessar,” he said, standing before offering her his hand, which she took before being hauled to her feet. “Otherwise I would intrude on your father’s hospitality. I likely will not see you before I depart tomorrow, but…”

“Farewell, Éomer,” Lothíriel said in a dry tone, trying to ignore the tingling that was spreading across her body from where his lips had touched her face.

“I will see you in a few months’ time,” he said. “I promise.”


	4. Chapter 4

The scritch-scratching of Lothíriel’s quill as she copied a text from Dorlir’s _Tales of a Steward_ did little to calm her racing heart. She had come down to the library with the express purpose of setting her mind at ease and to distract her from the arrival of Éomer’s guard and guests from Rohan. He had sent a messenger ahead of the group to warn Elessar, and naturally the gossip of the king’s arrival made it to Lothíriel soon after, by way of her chatty abigail. The news unnerved Lothíriel to no end, and the solace of the quiet library, her private, dim corner with only the light from a high off window illuminating her work—was not helping.

It was unfortunate, to her mind, that the last months had not cooled her affection for Rohan’s king. In fact, it was intensified, and she swallowed convulsively to dampen her throat, which was tightening as time crept by. She would see him at supper, and it could not come soon enough, or be delayed enough. 

Lothíriel was terrified of seeing him again.

These thoughts, which she had allowed to draw her attention from her work, did not soothe her in the least, and she re-focused on the parchment in front of her. There was a nice illustration in the corner of the original, and she pulled out her paints to attempt it. Drawing was not her strong suit, but she enjoyed making the patterns; faces and figures she never attempted. Lothíriel swirled a bit of red paint on her brush, careful to keep her hand away from the drying ink before pressing it to the paper. This, at least, was an accurate measure of her distraction: she never did script and decoration the same day! She had always waited some time to allow the ink to dry fully. But not today; she was feeling restless and impatient.

The intricate pattern of lines and knots did not appear to be quite accurate after some time of careful work, and Lothíriel nibbled the end of her paint brush, trying to decide how best to fix it.

“You have paint on your lip.”

A shiver of awareness crept up her spine, and she straightened to glare—to her left, where to her surprise Éomer was standing. How had he crept upon her in such a way? He grinned at her, then said,

“No welcome kiss?”

“Certainly not,” Lothíriel said, setting down her brush to disguise the trembling of her fingers. “If I kissed every guest to Merethrond my lips would be quite worn off of my face.” She took a moment, then, to study the man before her: he was wearing a dirty leather jerkin, and his matted ponytail did not distract at all from his attractiveness. Though his face seemed sterner than the last time she had seen him, he looked completely relaxed as he gazed upon her. His boots were muddy, too. “You look as though you have been sleeping outside,” she observed.

“I have been, and yet the woman I wish to greet refuses to do so!”

“How long have you been here?” she asked to detract from this uncomfortable vein.

“In the library? No more than five minutes.”

“In the city.”

His smile widened. “We rode into the courtyard not ten minutes ago.”

Lothíriel stared at him. “Really! You ought to still be making pretty with the nobility. For shame!”

“I was most anxious to see you,” he admitted. “Lothíriel...not even a handshake? It has been so long!”

“I think it would be wiser to say our first hellos at the banquet tonight,” she said in a quiet voice. “Gossip is rife here. If anyone saw that you absconded from the formal greetings to find me instead…”

He paused, and then said, “You are teasing me, Lothíriel.”

“There is truth in what I say.”

Éomer’s face had crumpled somewhat, and his brows furrowed. “Why is it,” he began. “That you are so practiced in denying me the pleasure of your friendship?”

“I am not denying you my friendship,” Lothíriel said, feeling at last calm as she stood to pack away her things. “I am only advising you that it is suspect.”

“And why is that?”

“Because—well, it would be quite bad if anyone learned of our...rendezvous in the forest last spring, and...Éomer, you are a king!” She straightened in agitation, tucking her brushes under her arm. “And my position—everyone will get the wrong idea!”

He was studying her with confusion, his head tilted slightly. “Is it the wrong idea?” he asked.

Lothíriel’s mouth fell open, and then her eyes narrowed at him. “Is the _right_ idea?” she countered. “Really, unless you have already decided to marry me—which, I assure you, would be a poor choice without consulting me—any intimacy will only tarnish our reputations.”

Éomer frowned. “I do not like this court life, or whatever it is.”

“I care little for it myself,” she said. “But it is our lot.”

They stood still, facing each other as the dusty air settled around them. The light from the window cast shadows on his face, and Lothíriel was suddenly sorry for making him unhappy, and she placed a hand on his arm. “I am sorry,” she said. “I was...startled by your appearance and lashed out necessarily.”

Éomer gave her an innocent grin at that. “Do I discompose you?” he asked.

“More than you know,” Lothíriel said fervently. “Now, we really ought to leave—”

“Wait.” He lifted a hand to brush back stray hair from her mussed braid, which was resting on her shoulder. “Are we friends, Lothíriel? I would very much like to know.”

She waited a moment before speaking, biting her lip to concentrate on what she wanted to say. “I suppose we are,” she said. “I do not bestow my friendship without cause, but since you did probably save my life…”

Éomer chuckled. “Unlikely. If anyone could have made it through falling off of her horse and returning home alone, it would be you.”

“I do not care much for your tone or implication,” Lothíriel said, lifting her chin with a lofty look.

“You, my girl, need to be teased more often,” he grinned.

“Please do not give my brothers any ideas!”

“I was not intending to,” Éomer said. “I reserve that right to myself. Besides, I enjoy the way you scowl at me when you dislike what I say.”

Lothíriel gave him a severe glare, which only made him laugh. “I am starting to think you are flirting with me,” she said, though the notion exhilarated her.

“Have you only just noticed? Béma, I must be out of practice!”

With a face as red as a beet, she turned to sweep past Éomer, but he caught her arm and turned her about before she could make her escape. “Friends may kiss each other in greeting,” he said in a low voice. “Will you deny me that?”

His eyes were holding her captive, and she stared at him, sorely tempted, for several seconds before she shook herself. “It is generally accepted that they kiss in public,” she said coolly, and removed her arm from him to make her departure. “Good bye, Éomer; I shall see you at supper.”

Lothíriel was equal parts excited and dreading the feast. When her father had arrived at her room to escort her into Merethrond, he did her the favor of warning her that she was to be seated by Éomer. “I hardly need to advise you to be pleasant,” he said, taking her arm as they strolled across the green to the great doors that led into the hall. “It may be a challenge—all I ask is that you do your best. Éomer is, admittedly, a difficult man to know.”

This surprised her; he had always seemed perfectly genial towards her—perhaps too genial. “Is he really?” she asked.

Imrahil looked at her askance. “Surely you already knew of his mein,” he said. “You are acquainted with him.”

“Yes, I am,” Lothíriel said absently. Her mind was whirling unhelpfully; her infatuation with the king of Rohan and all the insinuations he and her father seemed to imply about their relationship made her edgy. Imrahil took her directly to her seat at the long table at the head of the hall, and Éomer was already there, jumping to his feet when he saw her approach.

“Good evening, Princess Lothíriel!” he said, and made a grandiose bow. Lothíriel was not impressed, but curtseyed in return all the same. “It has been _far_ too long.” She wondered at his words; whether he was trying to keep private their earlier conversation. But his intent was soon clear, he pulled her in close and planted a noisy kiss on her cheek, whispering, “One point for me, darling.”

Lothíriel backed away from him with a warning glare, Éomer giving her a wink. She barely noticed her father, looking bemused as he took his leave of them. Éomer pulled out her chair for her, and she plopped into it, her back rigid and her jaw clenched. “You!” she muttered as he sat himself, rather too close to her. “You are...irrepressible!”

“All in good fun, Lothíriel. Ah, here is the meal now!”

She and her father had evidently been some of the last to arrive, and they did not have to wait long before food began to trickle in and servants placed platters upon platters of the best of Minas Tirith’s dishes in front of them. “I will take that,” Éomer said at once, immediately snatching a carving knife from the venison roast within her reach. “I have no desire to be dismembered at supper.”

“Then I shall have to wait until breakfast.”

He burst into laughter, causing many curious eyes to stray to them. Lothíriel flushed. “You are a treasure!” Éomer chortled. His exuberant compliment made her even more uncomfortable, but knowing how closely they were being watched, she forced herself to relax.

To her relief, their conversation changed as they began to serve themselves to more general topics. “Tell me,” Éomer said, serving her a dish of watercress, beets and goat cheese at her bequest. “Have you been freed of your ‘lady of the house’ duties in the last months, as you hoped?”

“Thankfully, yes. My father hired an actual housekeeper, and with the king and queen in residence they are presiding over their own domain! I have been spending many weeks in the most lazy fashion imaginable.”

He quirked his eyebrows at her, and she busied herself with a platter of melon slices to distract her from his effect on her. “I have never had the opportunity to be lazy,” he said. “I would very much like to know how you spend your days.”

Lothíriel lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “I rise late, I ride, I read, I copy manuscripts every so often—I eat alone in my rooms and barely talk to a soul all day. It is luxurious.”

Éomer was studying her as she spoke, and once she finished he took a moment before responding. “It does sound pleasant,” he said. “But—do you not get lonely?”

Her throat squeezed as she considered this. “I never used to get lonely when I was younger. But of late—yes, I find myself feeling restless on occasion.” The occasion generally being whenever her mind decided to indulge in a pleasant reverie about Éomer, but she did not say so.

“Perhaps you need a purpose.”

She gave him a lofty, level look. “Perhaps. Or a change of scenery—I am thinking of wintering in Dol Amroth.”

“Water or wine?”

“Ah...water please.” Lothíriel took a sip after Éomer filled her glass, watching as he filled his own with the same.

He glanced at her puzzled expression. “I need my wits about me if I am to speak to you any longer tonight,” Éomer explained. “And what is your excuse, if I may ask?”

“I care little for wine; I prefer to have a clear head about me at all times.”

“That does not surprise me in the least,” he said with a smile. They ate in silence for several minutes, Lothíriel only too aware of the radiating warmth and personality Éomer seemed to exude right next to her. It was rather like sitting too close to a fire. She cleared her throat.

“Now it is my turn to ask,” she said. “Have you been staying busy?”

His face appeared pinched as she glanced at him. “Too busy,” Éomer said in a low voice. “I have been overwhelmed and stressed and miserable. Please—let us speak of aught else!”

“Certainly not!” Lothíriel said. “Tell me of your problems; I promise that I am a good listener.”

After a moment where he seemed to wrestle within himself, Éomer began to speak slowly—then gaining momentum—as he described to Lothíriel exactly the challenges he had been facing over the last months. None of it sounded the least enjoyable: over a dozen villages rebuilding from the ground up, not enough seed to sow in the bare fields, and an absent-minded sister who spend much of her time writing to her betrothed. “The hardest part,” he said, leaning close to her as he clearly did not wish to be overhead. “Is that I am expected to have all the answers to every problem! I truly want to be a good king, but it is difficult with such little experience and so many demands made upon me!”

Lothíriel looked back at him thoughtfully. He was clearly more distressed than he showed; even their conversation as he had spoken his thoughts candidly, Éomer still filtered his narrative, perhaps for her sake. But that did not signify; he was struggling, and she could understand that. “I can say nothing that will ease your burden,” she told him. “I am rotten at offering condolences; I prefer solutions over commiserating.”

“And what solutions would you offer?” Éomer was not offended by her words, as she had half-expected; rather smiling at her as the strain on his face seemed to disappear.

“Delegate your duties. I obviously do not know how many counsellors you have, or clerks or assistants—but while your decisions are important, some of the less hairy situations might be given to others to solve.”

“Many of my uncle’s loyal advisors were sent away,” Éomer said. “I have yet to replace or recall them.”

“Then do so. And…” Lothíriel had only to consider her next statement for a half-moment before speaking. “If you are truly desperate, you might ask Erchirion to return to Rohan with you. He has been in Dol Amroth, and every letter I receive from him is full of complaints of his boredom! I believe he is in need of a project. Do not doubt his skills—Father made sure that all of his children could be his heir, were it necessary,” she added dryly on the end.

“Even you?”

“Especially me,” she said. “I do believe he intended me to be your cousin’s bride, or that of my own cousin.”

Éomer stared at her for a moment, and her discomfort returned under his scrutiny. “You astonish me,” he said at last.

Lothíriel cast him a black look. “Really, Éomer, it is outrageous to say such things! Whatever will everyone think of us?”

“They will think that we are flirting, of course. Or at least that I am; no one could mistake your deathly expression for one of flirtation, or even happiness.” This quip earned him a glare, which Éomer laughed off. “I like you, Lothíriel,” he said. “I appreciate your sincerity and your kindness, and when I am with you I forget that I am king.”

“I am grateful to be of service to you.” Lothíriel quickly schooled her features lest her true feelings revealed themselves. He liked her! It made her heart swell and her stomach knot with excitement and anxiety. Did Éomer mean that he liked her in only a platonic way or something...more?

The tension between them dissolved as the next course of the meal began, with servants taking trays away and bringing new ones. At that point Lothíriel was relieved when her attention was claimed by the man sitting on her other side, an aging lord of the Lamedon. The remainder of the banquet passed in a less agitating fashion, and she even began to feel a measure of relaxation, though her body never seemed to forget the Éomer was sitting close by.

She was especially pleased when the lord asked to lead her out for the first dance, which she accepted with nary a look to Éomer. Lothíriel could hardly dare to gauge his reaction, almost fearing that he would demand her as his own partner.

Lothíriel was astonished to see, while being expertly twirled around the floor with her lord, that Éomer was not alone; he himself was dancing with a breathtaking, dark-haired woman whom she knew only by sight as the sister of a court treasurer. The sight registered like a kick in the gut, and she felt the little food she had eaten slosh miserably in her stomach.

“My lady, are you well?” The kind lord was searching her face with concern.

“I am quite well, thank you,” Lothíriel forced a smile. “I apologize if I seem out of sorts.”

Still, every time she was unfortunate enough to see Éomer, which thankfully was not often, she felt more ill. When the song was at last over, she allowed the lord to escort her to the edge of the massive hall, where she leaned against the wall on trembling legs as she insisted that she was well enough to be left alone.

There was no reason for Lothíriel to be jealous; after all, they had no formal understanding, nor had Éomer ever indicated that he preferred her over other women. Seriously, that is. Surely his flirtations could not be counted as romantic interest. She gazed about the room at random, hoping not to see Éomer...but luck was not with her. Their eyes met as he strode towards her, and she blushed and looked away. He did not alter his course.

“Lothíriel,” he began in a stern voice, picking up her hand as soon as he was near enough to talk in a low voice. “You look ill. Are you alright?” Éomer then touched her pale cheek with his other hand, and she flinched.

“Quite fine, thank you,” Lothíriel’s tone was brittle. “Really, do not worry yourself over me. I was considering turning in early, actually, so you ought to go—”

He frowned at her words. “I was hoping to dance with you.”

“I do not think you will lack for partners.”

“I do not want other partners, Lothíriel—I want you!”

Her mouth fell open; Éomer was earnest as he held her hand tightly. Then her heart soared. “Go on, then,” Lothíriel sighed, feeling that she might come to regret this. “I am well enough to dance.”


	5. Chapter 5

Lothíriel was summoned to her father’s study the following morning. 

She had thus far been dragging her feet to make ready for the day; the night had been long, enjoyable, and titillating, and had made for a heavy head and a light heart when she woke a scant half-hour before a page came bearing a message from Imrahil. And so she had put on the nearest-at-hand clean frock and wandered down to meet her father, yawning the whole while. 

Upon her admittance she found that her father was sitting at a low table by a large, columned window that faced across the plains of Pelennor. Even from such a distance she could see ant-sized people going about activity upon it. 

“Come sit,” Imrahil said, motioning her to join him in a seat across from him. “Have you eaten yet?”

“I have not.” Lothíriel sat gingerly, her legs aching from dancing. 

He was smiling at her with a knowing expression, which she did not like one bit. “You should partake,” he urged, pointing towards the towards in front him, which was full of fruit, buns, meats, cheese and tea. “It might take some edge from your headache.”

She nibbled at a lemon bun. Lothíriel was only too aware of the way Imrahil’s smile lingered on her, a curious look in his eye. “Did you enjoy the feast last night?” she asked to divert the attention from her. 

“Oh, well enough; well enough.”

They lapsed into silence, and feeling apprehensive, Lothíriel put her bun back on the table. “Is there a particular reason you wished to see me this morn?” she asked lightly. 

“Does a father need a reason to break fast with his daughter?”

“If it is you; yes.”

Imrahil chuckled at this, and Lothíriel tried to relax. He was accepting her teasing, so that likely meant she was not in for a scolding. “Lothíriel, my girl,” he said fondly, and bent over the table to pat her hand. “My sweet little girl. You have made quite the conquest.”

“Conquest?” Perhaps it was her still-hazy mind, but his vague insinuation meant nothing to her.

“Yes, indeed,” her father said. “Everyone is talking about it—and may I say how proud I am that you have found happiness?”

She tilted her head, beginning to feel alarm at his words. “I do not understand,” she said stupidly.

“Why, I am speaking of your rapport with Éomer, of course! Or shall I call it an attachment?”

“Éomer?” Lothíriel’s heart thumped quickly. “Éomer? A conquest?”

Imrahil was looking at her in bemusement. “Surely you know,” he said. “Éomer is smitten.”

“Smitten?” 

“Yes, my girl, and with you! I can hardly believe that you did not suspect. You danced together the entire night!”

Lothíriel bit her lip to keep from smiling at that. While she could not help but doubt that Éomer was, in fact, smitten, she could not deny how lovely the evening had been. Her father was now nodding his head in satisfaction. “You are not immune to him, I see,” he said. “Oh, Lothíriel, how joyous this day shall be!”

“But—why is that?”

“Éomer paid me a visit this morning to ask if he could offer for your hand, and he intends to do so without delay.”

Her mind was reeling, and she clenched the armrests of her chair to steady herself. Imrahil’s words echoed through her mind...offer for your hand...offer for your hand...without delay…

“I did not expect you to find this such a shock,” her father’s gentle voice broke through. “I truly thought you knew.”

“I—I—” Lothíriel found no words, and all she managed was a tight smile. 

“You have time to consider before he comes for you,” her father said. “He intends to take you for a ride this afternoon. But if you would rather not, I can—”

“No, no—it is quite alright.” She stood, smoothing down her skirt with trembling hands. “Thank you for the meal, Father, and—and the warning.”

 

Lothíriel could not meet Éomer’s eyes as they plodded down the stone streets of the second circle. She was sure he had been trying to catch her gaze, and so avoided it. Why, exactly, he had been doing so was unclear: they were still in Minas Tirith; it was bad timing if he wished to propose marriage to her now. And so she sat stiffly, looking around in practiced motions at the city sights around her: stone houses, working men, women with children and excited dogs. 

The repair work on the front gate to the city was progressing, and the sound of hammers and hallos of the workers followed them beyond the wall and onto the dirt road. 

“Bema, that took ages!” Éomer said, breaking the silence between them with a sigh. “I do not remember that trip taking so blasted long.”

“It is the same length it has always been,” Lothíriel said. “It is your attitude that causes your misery.”

He laughed. She looked away before he could notice her flush, berating herself for being such a ninny; she so rarely blushed! Only in his presence, it seemed. 

“What say you to a race?”

Lothíriel met his eyes with a level look. “Do you ask because you know I have not a chance of winning?” she asked. “And would that not make your victory less savory?”

“It would indeed, but I also feel that our steeds are well-matched,” Éomer said. 

“Not a chance! Firefoot has twice the strength of Rhÿn.”

“But he carries twice the weight! Besides...are you not the least bit curious of how well Firefoot and Rhÿn are matched?” His tone was devious, and she grimaced; he knew her all too well.

“Go on then!” Lothíriel said, and they halted. Rhÿn stamped underneath her, apparently still itching to release pent-up energy; the walk down the main road of Minas Tirith had been extremely slow. “Where to?”

“The crossroads; do you see it?”

“Yes!” she snapped. “I know it well. On my mark—” The horses sprung together as one. The wind blew past her ears with a roar as the pounding of hooves filled the air, and Éomer gained a few feet ahead of her. It was irksome that he had goaded her into a race that was clearly going to win, but she was not going to let his victory be so easy! Lothíriel leaned over Rhÿn’s neck, murmuring encouragement to her mare, whose ear twitched in response before Rhÿn shot forward.

Firefoot had strength, and plenty of endurance, but on an open plain with a lighter rider, Rhÿn crept ahead, her hooves barely reaching the crossroads first. Lothíriel reined her in and both horses paused, stomping and snorting. She took her chance to shoot Éomer a look of utmost snobbishness, which made him laugh. 

“Had I known you were such a poor winner, I would have tried harder to beat you,” Éomer said. “But all the same—well done!”

“Thank you,” Lothíriel shook out her mussed hair primly, and he continued to chuckle. 

“Do you mind detouring to Osgiliath?” he asked. “I have not had a chance to see it since the war.”

“It is still in ruins, so do not expect anything different!”

The race had released a measure of the tension between them, and Lothíriel was able to laugh with Éomer as they conversed for the remainder of the ride on a variety of light-hearted topics. As the previous night had involved hours upon hours of them talking in a similar way, they had reached the point of close friendship which Lothíriel was sure she had not experienced with anyone before. But Éomer was an undemanding, cheerful friend, and she appreciated that. She did not feel pressured into acting like a princess; she could just be...herself. But in her heart of hearts, Lothíriel was hesitant about the idea of marrying him. The thought of queenly duties was unpleasant; she had experienced enough of that during the war, could she really endure it for a lifetime? She did like Éomer very much, perhaps too much, and she did not want to disappoint him. 

These thoughts brought a brittle smile to her face as they rode past the crumbling walls and into the even more crumbling city. Craftsmen were busy repairing some of the worst-looking buildings, which appeared to be on the verge of collapsing all together. It made Lothíriel even more nervous. 

“I suppose...I suppose it looks somewhat better,” Éomer said, though his tone was doubtful. 

“I am sure it does. After all, it is not at the center of a war any longer.” Lothíriel nudged Rhÿn through a cracked courtyard, as she spied the Anduin river at the end of a long street. Though it was lined with rocks and boulders, her mare was easily able to pass through it. Éomer followed her, Firefoot managing less well but making it through all the same. 

Dirty green water lapped at the shoreline; the beach was no more than crumbled stone and the sort of garbage that camps of soldiers dispose of. The city on the far side of the river looked to be in worse condition, with burned houses and decrepit siege weapons. “I remember visiting the city when I was young,” she said to Éomer, who had drawn up Firefoot next to her. “It was...much nicer then.”

“This is ghastly,” he said in a low voice. “I should not have suggested we come here, I have spoiled the day!” 

“You have not spoiled the day,” Lothíriel said, casting him a look. “Really, Éomer, such melodrama does not become you.”

As she hoped, a grin returned to his face. “Do you think that tower is safe to explore?” He nodded towards a sturdy looking spire coming out of what she recognized at the city palace. 

“It looks alright,” Lothíriel said. “And I have always wanted to climb it.”

The palace was only a few minutes’ ride away, built on the riverbank and standing tall to look over the opposite shore. It seemed to have escaped most of the damage; perhaps it had been strategic enough to keep whole. There was no one around, and after they tethered their horses to a wall outside, Éomer walked straight up the steps to the broken door. Lothíriel lingered for a moment, confident that if there was a fault in the structure, he would find it first. But there was no collapsing, and Lothíriel made her way up into the palace. 

Éomer was waiting for her in the front hall, looking around the dirty marble columns and half-caved in ceiling with interest. “Seems like a pleasant enough place,” he said.

“It was,” she replied. “I snuck into a ball here, once—I think I was six years of age.”

“Somehow I can see you doing that very thing. Come on; the tower is that way.” He took her hand to lead her carefully through the decrepit corridors until they reached the eastern corner, where an unhinged door blocked their way up the steps. Éomer moved it with some difficulty, flashing her a smile as she raised her eyebrows at this. “After you?” he asked.

“No, thank you; I am happy to risk your life first.”

He laughed, and again held her hand as they climbed the stairs to the tower. There was almost enough room so that they could walk side by side, but mostly Éomer ended up pulling her along so that she would not stumble on the narrow steps. 

The vista was as nice as Lothíriel had always imagined, apart from the ruined city below. Even the mountains that kept Mordor separated were looking less sinister than normal, and she breathed in fresh air. Éomer strode across the tiny room, stick his head out of another window which faced south. “This is terribly grand,” he said. 

“Yes, it is,” she agreed, leaning out on the windowsill, which thankfully held. “It was worth the trip, I think.” 

He did not respond straightaway. “It is worth being in your company,” Éomer finally said in a low voice, and she started as she felt his hand brush against her arm. When had he approached her? Lothíriel turned, astonished that he was leaning so close to her. “I hope you feel the same.” She could only stare into his green eyes, as he—as he—

Éomer’s lips hovered over hers, his arms snaking around her back and pressing her close into his chest. Her breath caught as she dearly hoped he could not feel the frantic thumping of her heart. “Lothíriel…” he whispered. “I...I wish you would marry me. Will you?”

Her head tilted as his words registered. She had half-expected he would not ask her; the day had been so lovely and devoid of awkwardness! Lothíriel’s lower lip stuck out in a pout as Éomer gazed into her eyes. “But—why?” she asked. 

“Why?”

“Yes, why!” she said, noticing that the tension between them had turned very thick. “I do not see why—”

Éomer’s brows lifted. “Does a man truly need a reason to wish to marry?”

“Well—I do not know—but you! You certainly need a reason to marry me.”

“Are you not reason enough?”

Lothíriel squinted at him. The sun had obviously begun to set, for his face was now shrouded in shadow, but that did not disguise his troubled expression. “Of course I am not reason enough!” she blurted. “You—you need a queen, not a girl who would rather read than legislate and ride than reign!”

Éomer grinned down at her. “The riding is perfectly acceptable, if you are to be queen of horse-lords,” he said. “The reading I can cope with, I think.”

Lothíriel drew away from him, her heart thudding now with anger instead of attraction. “Cope with? You think?”

“No one is perfect, my girl, and—”

Her face crumpled. Éomer noticed this, and ceased talking to reach for her again, but it was too late. Lothíriel sniffled, and shook her head. “I decline your proposal,” she said, her voice sounding nasal. “I do not wish to marry a man who seeks merely to cope with me.”

“Blast it, Lothíriel, that is not what I meant! Wait—” 

She was already turned towards the steps, tears blurring her view. “We should return.”

They were back on the road to Minas Tirith a scant ten minutes later; Éomer quiet and Lothíriel miserable. She had not meant to make him unhappy, but really! It was his own fault. All she wanted to know was whether he loved her. Since he had not said so, he obviously did not. 

Lothíriel berated herself as Rhÿn picked up on her tension. One handsome man looks her way and suddenly she becomes Arda’s silliest goose! Only a year ago and she would have been quite capable of making a cool, level-headed decision of whether to accept a marriage proposal. But this...this was warmth and feeling and affection. She liked Éomer so much; she could not bear that he did not feel the same.

The gallop up through the city’s circles was silent. Everyone was likely at supper, and the candlelights through windows drew them deeper into the city. At last—Lothíriel felt that the ride had lasted a lifeage—they were at her father’s house, and Éomer alighted quickly and strode over to her. He reached up his hands to help her dismount. With trembling hands she accepted, and he swung her downwards. 

“I am sorry for offending you,” Éomer said, his voice stiff. “I did not mean to do so. I suppose I was foolish enough to think that you cared for me.”

“I am sorry for paining you,” Lothíriel countered. “I also did not mean to do so. And I do care for you!”

“But it is not the same.”

They studied each other in the moonlight, each wary and unsure. “No, I do not think it is the same,” Lothíriel whispered, a sudden and inexplicable yearning to kiss him nearly overwhelming her. 

He released her arms. “Good night, Lothíriel,” Éomer said, making a formal bow. “I shall see you...another time.”

Tears watered her pillow that night, and for many nights afterwards.


	6. Chapter 6

Winter blew in with the suddenness typical of mountain weather; one day it was sunny and cool, the next everyone was huddled inside their homes next to the hearths as a storm wailed through the streets of Minas Tirith. 

Lothíriel spent most of her time that autumn and winter in her chambers, and so the blizzards affected her very little. But her usual pastimes of reading and copying texts distracted her very little, and so mostly she just stared miserably into the fire. After the disastrous ride with Éomer during the summer, she had seen very little of him until he left for his home a few days later. That there was not an engagement between them had caused a few concerned looks from her father, but her stiffness did not invite questioning. Truthfully, for the first time in her life, Lothíriel felt very, very lonesome, and it bothered her in conjuction with her strange restlessness. Not a day had passed without her thinking of Éomer—with affection, with regret, with the anguish of missing his company. How, exactly, she had managed to love with him so much more after she refused his proposal, made little sense to her; though it did contribute to her overall torment.

Her behavior did not go unnoticed, but it did go unaddressed for several weeks until one day, when her father called upon her with a crease between his brows. 

“Good afternoon, daughter,” he said, obliging her with a kiss upon her cheek as she stood to greet him. 

“Hello, Father.” Lothíriel waved at him to sit in one of the frilly sitting chairs in her parlor. “May I ask the occasion?”

“Must there be an occasion?”

The long-standing joke between them was still alive, and she cast her father a knowing look as he chuckled. “Very well!” he said. “There is a reason I came to see you today. We received an invitation from the king of Rohan to spend Yuletide in Edoras, along with many others. Elessar and the queen intend to go, as do I and your brothers.”

“Is that so.” Lothíriel felt her heart squeeze. 

“I am inviting you to join us,” Imrahil continued. 

“That is kind, Father, but I would prefer—”

He held up a hand. “I suppose I misspoke. I am not inviting you. I am telling you that you are coming with us.”

Her father so rarely forced her hand, and Lothíriel felt her mouth fall open. “But—”

“But nothing, Lothíriel,” he said, and his tone was firm. “You are obviously unhappy, and you need a change of scenery or—or something to jolt you out of it. Now listen—” he continued, not allowing her to protest, “I do not know what happened between you and Éomer. But you must move forward and overcome it.”

She felt her chin trembling, and she looked away from her father’s gentle but penetrating gaze. “I will go.” Lothíriel said, saying so simply to have it appear as if it were her choice. 

“Excellent! We are leaving in two weeks’ time.” Imrahil stood, dropping a kiss on her head before making for the door. “And Lothíriel—” He added as he paused, halfway into the corridor. “Try not to break any more hearts while you are there.”

 

Meduseld was a homey, warm hall with many fires and rich tapestries, lively with the many bodies visiting for the holiday. Lothíriel felt out of place as she sipped her mead and wandered through the large room, admiring the festive decorations and trying to avoid being seen by Éomer. 

It seemed to be working perfectly; he was socializing with his guests with nary a glance towards her. Could she be so lucky to successfully steer clear of him for the evening? This was only the first night of celebrations, and there were still eleven to go. But Lothíriel believed that if she could make it through the first, the others would be much easier. 

That is, if her heart ever stopped aching. 

She liked Edoras and Meduseld so well! There was a comfort in them that was strangely absent in her other homes. Perhaps it was the beautiful wood structures and the unpretentious furniture; the marble palace in Dol Amroth and even their stone house in Minas Tirith were suddenly cold and unwelcoming in her memory. They lacked this vibrancy of life, of comfort, of warmth. Or was that the massive, burning fire in the hearth? 

A hand grasped her arm, and Lothíriel startled violently, looking up to see—Amrothos. She scowled. “You are biting your fingernails,” he said in a low voice. “Very bad manners, Rie.”

“Thank you for pointing that out,” she said coolly. “Anything else? Is my hair undone? Is my dress unlaced?”

With a grin, he checked, and then said, “All is well, sister.”

Lothíriel merely sniffed at him, not at all in the mood for teasing, which he evidently did not notice. “They are starting a ceremony soon,” Amrothos said. “I thought you might like to stop feeling sorry for yourself and join in.”

“What is the ceremony?”

“I am not exactly sure; Éomer explained that there is going to be a fire in each corner of the hall, but I did not quite catch the meaning of it. You should ask him, if you want to know—oh, here he is now!” Amrothos greeted the king, who shook his hand heartily before turning to Lothíriel with a low bow. She felt as if she would faint dead away with nervousness, but made a credible curtsey. She rose—his green eyes at last looking directly into her own, reserved and unfathomable. She was sure her heart was in her throat, and she gulped. 

“Good evening, princess,” Éomer said. “I hope you are faring well.”

Lothíriel managed a weak smile in return, but as Amrothos took his leave (having spotted a pretty girl a few feet away) she was briefly excused from answering. 

“You do not have to speak,” the king continued dryly. “Just nod—yes or no.” This made her scowl, and a shadow of the familiar light in his eyes returned, along with a grin. “I was hoping to ask a favor of you,” Éomer said. “If you do not mind, that is.”

“What is it?” Lothíriel asked, lifting her chin to prove that she was not cowed by him; which, of course, she completely was.

“The lighting of the fires tonight—it is tradition for the first night of Yuletide—each of the fires is lit by someone auspicious. A soldier, a farmer, a mother, and a guest. The important pillars of our society; the soldier is for protection, the farmer for abundance, a mother for the continuing of generations, and a guest to symbolize bounty and hospitality. They are lit in each corner of the hall to chase away the darkness of winter!”

Lothíriel eyed him. “I do hope you intend for me to portray the guest; I am not a soldier, farmer, nor mother.”

Éomer smiled at her then, a sort of wistful expression on his face. “Yes, you are to be the guest.”

“But why? There are others better qualified to be a guest than I! Have you asked Elessar? Or my father?”

“I want you,” Éomer said. “They are all well and good, but you—” He trailed off, his voice holding an undercurrent of intensity, and an ill feeling surfaced in the region of her belly. 

“I cannot light a fire,” she said at last.

He chuckled, and the sound of it made her heart flutter. “You do not have to start it,” he said. “You only have to take a branch from the hearth to the place prepared in your corner.”

“If—if you are sure, then I will do it.” Somehow, in the center of her misery, she wanted to please him. Oh, how she wanted to make him smile again! Lothíriel realized that the marriage proposal was neither here nor there; how badly she wished to have his friendship again! Her lip was trembling, and she noticed that he was watching her with concern. 

“Are you alright, Lothíriel?” he asked. 

“I—” She pushed past the lump in her throat, determined to speak her mind. “Éomer—I must tell you. I am sorry for refusing your proposal last summer.”

He seemed taken aback by her plain words, but recovered quickly. “It is kind of you to apologize,” he said. “But it is unnecessary.” With a tight smile, he made to leave, but Lothíriel caught hold of his sleeve. 

“It is necessary! I feel awful.”

Éomer let loose a sigh, glancing around the room quickly as if to make sure that they were not overheard. “You should not feel awful,” he said quietly. “You were only choosing the way to your happiness, which cannot be faulted.”

“Éomer…” Lothíriel began. “There is something that I should tell you. Do not laugh at me, I beg you! Before I knew who you were, apart from a friend I met in the forest...I—I did want to marry you, I suppose.”

His brows drew together as he studied her. She took a breath, and continued. “But when I found out that you were a king, I—I realized that I, well—I am not quite worthy of you.”

“Nonsense, that is—”

Lothíriel shook her head, interrupting him. “I really do not understand why you asked for my hand, Éomer; I am not at all fit to be a queen. A soldier’s wife, perhaps, but nothing any more important. You; you are you, and you are far above me! I am awkward, I am a recluse—I would make a rotten queen.” Her spiel finished, Lothíriel looked up at him earnestly, hoping with all her heart to earn forgiveness. If he could only understand why she had refused him… 

Éomer was now smiling somewhat sardonically as his eyes swept across her face. “I have many things to say to you, miss!” he said. “Firstly, I am no better than you! I am not sure where you got the idea that I am superior. Truthfully...when we met in the forest, I was...running from my own problems. I was overwhelmed with my new station and could not take the stress any longer. That is hardly the mark of a successful king!” He forced a chuckle, and Lothíriel stared. “Anyway. You are selling yourself terribly short, Lothíriel; you excel at managing a household. I can hardly believe that you managed both the steward’s and your father’s houses during the siege. I rather believe that makes me unworthy of you.”

“Oh, Éomer, please!”

“A man who believes he is going to his death is a funny thing,” Éomer said, ignoring her words. “I could not stop thinking about the little fey I met in the forest. I determined even before the battle at the Black Gate that if I returned I would cart you back to the Riddermark and marry you. I was suitably disappointed to learn that you are Imrahil’s daughter.”

Lothíriel’s lips parted in surprise, and then she scowled as his words registered more fully. “And if I said no?” 

“Are you saying that I overestimate my own charms?” His grin struck her right in the heart, and she bit her lip to keep from laughing. How dearly she hoped that none of the others in the hall were noticing their exchange! But the loud voices and laughter made her feel that they were safe, for that moment at least. 

“Éomer,” she said, feeling brave enough to speak the rest of her mind now. “I could not marry a man that does not love me. I am not saying you should, of course,” she added hastily. “But I only wanted to explain to you why I refused you, since I did not have the chance during the summer.

“But, Lothíriel—I do love you. I have for months!” 

There was a pause as they stared at each other. Then Lothíriel blurted, “No! Certainly not. I would have noticed.”

“Did you not notice that I spent an entire night dancing only with you? Or…” Éomer was somehow leaning in closer to her as his voice became soft. “Can you not feel…” His hand brushed up her arm, and she tensed like a wild animal, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. “You...feel nothing?” he asked at last.

“I feel plenty,” she said tartly. “And there are people watching, Éomer, for goodness’ sake!”

He looked around to confirm that she was, indeed, correct, and then turned back. “Later tonight,” he said. “When everyone is a bit less sober, I am going to take you somewhere private and kiss you.”

“Yes, you do that.”

“Then will you believe that I love you?” 

Lothíriel’s heart was singing. “Perhaps,” she relented. “But I think you ought to ask me to marry you again.”

Éomer laughed. “All in good time, Lothíriel. All in good time.”


End file.
